


Your lips taste just like money

by immune_emu



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: 2018 Formula 1 Season, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Charles has -opinions-, First Kiss, Light Bondage, M/M, Rough Sex, Some Swedish, Teasing, Tiny bit of Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-04-07 09:19:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19082089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/immune_emu/pseuds/immune_emu
Summary: All Charles wants is to get under the skin of his teammate before he manages to get under his.





	1. Chapter 1

It's all in a far too polite smile. A polite smile created in a country too closed for grand gestures, where people smile as a way to say "excuse me" in order to not waste words in the cold. A smile so polite and still bound so awkward, that anyone would wonder if it was genuine.  
He is no different when he first meets the man, after all, he has heard the stories of people from the north, where a smile is almost a curse and silence counts more than anything. And when the man fills the rest of the list of stereotypes of blonde and tall and speaking in a slow raspy tone, it is almost too much to all be true. But there is something in that polite smile that promises more than what meets the eye, it's a gaze that sees right through him and tells him that nothing is like it seems.  
It doesn't get better when they first meet and he shakes his hand, when he tells him his name and the man repeats it back with a curl of his tongue that somehow sends a shiver down his spine. A man could be driven crazy by less, especially when it's delivered with a far too polite smile.

Some men are destined for greatness, and some are made for something else. He can't help but wonder if the smiling man in front of him has realised that he will never reach greatness, if he has realised that he is the laughing stock of a whole world, all over the simple crime of just not being good enough. But there are some questions you just do not ask, you do not ask them to another driver, and you really, really do not ask your very own teammate if they realise that they aren't good enough. Especially not when the kind man offers to show him how things are around there, still with the polite smile and the placement of a gentle warm hand on his shoulder. It is a gentle hand that brings with it a smell of pine trees and rain soaked forests, a hand that retracts too soon and leaves a burning mark. It makes him question if he himself is a good enough man.

It is no longer a polite smile, it turns to an infuriating smile when weeks pass by and he realises that no matter how much he tries to shake the man, that he just won't budge. Because the swede is the only one that have scored points, and he himself is nothing else than a rookie, no matter how much he tries to be something different. The smile is even more infuriating because all of a sudden it is not as much polite, as a smile knowing that the new kid is not all that he claims to be. Because he sits in a team with the man who somehow manages to breaks all the new ones, and they both know it. It's a whisper in the air that says that the man will do whatever it takes to keep his place, that he must never let his guard down or he will be the next one. The black stallion can't help him here, he must break the man who destroys his kind and he must do so alone.  
He just doesn't know how. But he knows that the man has picked something up, that he has seen signals that should not have been there and that the man now even more than before has the upper hand. It all gets worse on the laziest of days, when he lets down his guard because the smile meeting him is suddenly so sincere. Where he just happen to slip and say that he never does anything bad because that is just how he is. He does not expect to hear a _oh come on_ , and for just a moment when he looks at him, he also knows that the man with the infuriating smile knows that the oh so very good boy, is not always so good. And he can't help it, for a moment he wants to press his own body against his, just to show him how bad the good boy can really be if he would just ask.

He is destined for something bigger than this, and he knows it. It is a late evening of working far too long with setups that never seems to turn out right, when he realises that the man with the eternal smile has worked just as hard as him, but will still always fall too short. It's in the way that his shoulders slump when he shrugs and gazes at nothing, and as any decent man he can't help but to ask what is wrong with a kind smile that usually makes people melt. But all he gets is a sigh, and a man that looks at him with tired eyes. _You ever get the feeling that you do everything and still you get nothing?_ The smile falls from his lips when the swede speaks the words so bitterly, and all of a sudden he understands why everything about him is so familiar. The man next to him carries a country of expectations and the knowledge that whatever he does he will never be good enough, and it is a burden that he knows far too well. And just for a moment he thinks that he has managed to reach him, when the words come out of his mouth that he fully understands and that he actually feels the same, that he never feels he does good enough.  
But no. Suddenly it is back, the polite smile now filled with doubt and he hits him with an almost silent whisper. _Yeah, we've all heard the stories,_ he says and leaves a hand on his shoulder just a moment too long to make it seem sincere. Because who would not doubt it when the golden boy says that life is hard, when everything seems so simple and he only carries the weight of those so suddenly gone. It seems so easy, after all.

He learns to hate the smile that meets him, it has ceased to be infuriating and moved on to something worse. It has gone too far over a slow weekend, because he know he could do better, he can always do better and be something more, and make those that have disappeared so proud. And meanwhile that man dares to complain that he has to drive for his survival, still with that sickening polite smile. But if he drove for his life, would he not be better, would he not be destined for something else than paving his way ahead with other peoples money? It's a song of frustration in his soul that makes him burst, where he doesn't mean to let it out, but still does, just a few tired words of **_just shut up already!_**  
The silence is deafening as he realises what he just said, and he meets the ever immovable gaze of a man that knows exactly where he is in the world, and it's that god damn smile of a man that now knows that the young gun in front of him is everything that he said he wasn't. In that moment it doesn't matter how much he tries to apologise over the bad word and blame it on a bad day, it doesn't matter that he tries to walk away from there and play at innocence. It is not something he can save with a soft smile and gentle eyes, not when the smiling man grabs his arm and those eyes of steel see straight through everything he has pretended to be.  
He leans so close that he can feel his own heartbeat on his skin, and his mouth turns dry when soft lips with the infuriating smile graze by his ear. _I knew you had it in you_ , he whispers and walks away, just close enough for him to almost feel his body against his own, just close enough to let the hand linger along his arm as he leaves. A shiver runs over his skin, and he realises that this is a battle that he has lost, that his teammate suddenly knows just what that makes him tick.  


Long ago he learned that some men are destined for greatness and others for something less. He's not so sure any more which one he is meant to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't written fanfic in years, and this is my first f1-fanfic! So, uh, I hope you enjoy, I kept it short and non-filthy this time, but it will get worse for sure. More to come in the following weeks when I overcome my stage-fright.
> 
> Title is from the band Kent and their song "Just like money".


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wants him, but he sure doesn't know how to reach him.

For some men it is just a game, nothing more than a game where they try to make others squirm. It is a game he wants no part of, but it's not up to him any more, is it? Not when that man has other plans and he is just a pawn for some oafish Viking dressed in modern clothes.  
The latest of the games is also the oddest, where the swede has taken to taunting him in the flat tone which he calls his mother tongue. At least he thinks it is taunts, because they are said with that suddenly less than polite smile and a pitying tone. And he doesn't believe for a second that his teammate does what everyone else does and actually feels sorry for him.  
Today is no different. He drags his fingers through his hair, frustration rising in him as he tries to figure out just how to get the best out of the car. His words almost turns to nothing more than irritated mumbles when he speaks to his engineer when he suddenly hears the condescending tone. _“Stackars lilla rika pojke”._ He turns around just in time to see the swede walk past with the same old smile, and turns back with a confused frown. The man might as well have been speaking in runes.

Language is a barrier between souls, and it is why he has decided to master them. He knows that language will take him where he wants, and it is already taking him where he wants. Because to find a home with the black stallion, you have to speak their tongue in order to call them yours.  
His teammate does not seem to have gotten the memo over the power of language, where all he hears is a English that might be less broken than his own, but broken nonetheless.  
One day in the basking sunlight he asks sitting next to him if they don't learn any languages in that cold place that he calls home. And the swede smiles, that god damn smile, and says with a shrug _“It is not cold in the summer”_. All he can do is stare at him and let out a laugh, the first one he's had around him. _**“God, you're so stupid”**_ , he blurts out with a relaxed sigh.  
He doesn't expect the man to suddenly lean so close, the warm skin of their arms touching, it sends a jolt of electricity inside him and his breath suddenly comes out harder than he wishes. _“Don't pretend that you don't love it”_ a whisper hits his ear, and it takes all willpower he has to just dare to look at him. And his teammate is so close, so close that if one of them just leaned forward things could be so differently. But the man sits still, smiles at him with a knowing look and leaves him alone without as much as a word. The thoughts race in his head, how he could get up and stop him, ask him to explain himself and what he is doing, but somewhere he knows that it is useless, that his teammate has never given him anything that even resembles clear answers. He's been pulled into a game, and for the first time in his life he does not know how to win.

Some men play games, but he is not one of them. When he has wanted something, he has been sure to get it, and now he knows what he wants, he just does not know how. He knows how to get the feeling of victory in the sleek car under him on track, but the man in the other car is an enigma he cannot break.  
So he does his best to be nice and humble, because it is what he really is, and he pulls out that charm that everyone else has ever fallen for. Because who can resist a man that looks like he is always dreaming, who can separate his lips just a bit in pure thoughtlessness?  
The answer is his teammate, apparently. Because even if they suddenly are the closest of friends to everyone else on the outside, he sees the polite smile return, and it is the last thing that he wants. He tries to sit a bit closer, just to see the man move away ever so slightly. He carefully touches his shoulder when talking to him, and is met with a bored stare. Whatever he does, it all fails, and it is driving him mad.  
He is close to breaking when his home race goes badly. Things were supposed to happen differently, but he was let down, not by his own device but by others. So when he is hit by a new taunt of _“Stackars lilla rika pojke, gick det inte som du ville”_ , he has nothing left to keep inside and just snaps at him to speak a _**normal god damn language**_.  
It is not the polite smile that hits him but a raspy laughter, but he doesn't want none of that, he is done with this type of games and all he wants is to go home and mourn over what could have been. He doesn't expect the sudden grip of a hand under his chin, and the penetrating gaze of a man that has avoided him for a week. _“Come on, I'm only giving you what you need”_ and the voice that hits him almost purrs.  
Had it been another day, the firm touch would have been enough to make him back off and melt, but today he feels the seething rage of disappointment, and he knows that this is a battle that he must win if he ever wants to have an edge over the taunting swede. That is why it is nothing less than an attack just like the ones he does on the track, he pulls on his shirt to get him closer, to plant his lips against his own. For a second he thinks that he has succeeded, where their heads are pressed against each other, when he suddenly feels the sensation of a finger against his lips. So close, but once more he has been pushed into defeat.  
_"You haven't earned that yet"_ , the man almost whispers while he untangles his fingers from his shirt and pushes him away, leaving him with a heavily beating heart and a body that screams for gentle touches. But for the first time it does not feel like defeat, and for the first time this year, he finally sees a way to win.

Language is the key and it takes him too long to realise it. Where he usually learns language by speaking, this time it is too close, too intimate, and he is left to his own devices with a psychotic owl in his phone. And for the first time, he is really terrible at it. It is a broken language with harsh tones, born out of the cold and the dry. When he first recognises words, it is those of his own mother tongue, and he understands why it is meant to be sung, not spoken. His teammate just happen to speak it calmly in a way that few others do. Word by word he patches together, and in the end he finally understands what the swede has been calling him.  
One day he decides to try his newfound knowledge, decides to hit him where he is too relaxed and not at all expecting it. Where the blonde sits half awake with some papers in his hands, he sits down on the table before him, barely granted a glance. And before the man has time to say anything, he speaks _“Why are you calling me “little boy?””_  
He expects something else. Not that the man just looks at him and starts smiling, not that he will look around before leaning in just a little bit closer.  
_“I'm not calling you a little boy”_ , and he realises that he has lost once more, that the haunting owl has been wrong. And when the man leans closer this time, it is without the polite smile. _“I'm calling you a poor little rich boy”_. He wants to tell him with salty words how that makes no difference at all, but there is no time where a hand grips his neck and he gets pushed towards him, and he feels the smiling lips against his own for the first time, a tongue searching and taking every word of protest, and he wants more, god knows he wants more, his body yearns and his skin shivers. He doesn't want it to end when the man without the polite smile pulls away, his hand still firmly grasping his chin. _I knew it_ , he says, and he is gasping for air when he asks what, what could he possibly know about him that he didn't know before?  
_"Tastes just like money"_ , the man whispers against his lips, and the world falls as that god damn smile faces him again, it falls as he lets him go and once more leaves him alone. For a second he thinks of stopping him, but when he turns around he is already gone, and all that comes out from his mouth is the weakest please he has ever spoken, far too faint for anyone to hear.  
He realises that this is a game he just cannot win, and the only way to get what he wants is to discard all the languages that keep him away and to beg in his own. After all, there are uglier ways to lose a battle than on your knees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, thanks for all the kudos! I meant to get this chapter up earlier, but the heatwave struck my editing-skills badly.  
> And as for the swedish, at Charles home-race Marcus is calling him a poor little rich kid, and asking if things didn't go as he wanted.
> 
> Next chapter will be a longer one, about 2000 words. Do let me know if you'd prefer me to make that multiple chapters! :D


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some filth in this. If you don't want filth, I'd just read half of it to get the plotty parts.

It's all about control. That is why he is not a believer in fate, just hard work, because life does not just hand over what you want. Whatever you want, you have to fight for it. And despite what others might think, he is used to fighting and sacrifice, he knows that nothing ever comes for free. He isn't born of money, whatever his teammate might say. And he sure doesn't taste like it.  
But control is also so fickle, it's something that is so easy to tear down. That is the problem when he sees his teammate, where control is getting replaced by a tortured longing he has no say over, and a realisation that the summer-break is closing in on them. He isn't sure what will actually feel the worst, seeing him almost every day and not being able to touch, or not seeing him for several weeks. He wants so much, and all he gets is that damn smile and a casual nod from distance.  
It doesn't get better when he sits in the motorhome absent-minded, awaiting yet another set of the interviews that are there to hail him as the next great man. But all that is on his mind is the kiss that still burns on his tongue, it unveils the hunger that he tries so hard to suppress. And he can't help it, his fingers trail over his lips, trying to trace back everything that happened. He closes his eyes just for a second, the image playing in his mind of his teammates hands on his skin and the taste of salt on his tongue. It's enough to awaken the fire once more, it licks along his spine and lures him with sweet promises.  
But he has other things to do, he shakes his head and opens his eyes, he can't let himself fall like this. A small laugh enters his ears, and he looks towards the sound only to see his teammate standing just meters away and watching him. And he searches for a sign in his eyes, he tries to find some answer to what the man wants with him. But all is cut short by the sudden appearance of the media, and suddenly all that surrounds him is questions of racing and the future as the man disappears as silently as he arrived. He knows that he shouldn't be surprised over the games, that he should be used to heartache by now. But his mind still whispers of what he could have, it whispers of a faint scent of pine and the ache of dark woods. It is the first time he wishes he was the type of man that knew how to give up.

 

Bodies speak before the mind, and sometimes it's a lingering memory that gives it away. He does his best to ignore the hunger that pulses through him, because there is too much at stake. The races have not been going his way, he has been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and it is of little solace that he has beaten his teammate again and again because he wants more.  
He swats at his arm, because there he is again, obsessing over a quiet man who doesn't give him what he wants. This is not who he is, he is a better man than that. He is used to hiding emotions and pushing it all down, because he is not a man that unravels, he is a man that controls and that is how it has always been. Control will bring him where he wants, control will make sure that his race goes well, as it has always done.  
But any string that is pulled too hard is bound to burst, and all that it takes is a hand on his shoulder for him to forget all that he has promised himself. A hand that travels onto his neck in a slow caress, that makes him turn around because god knows that he is not stronger than this. He doesn't expect the man to press up against him and pushing him up against the wall. All under the gaze of those eyes of silver, where he feels his lips meet his own, the sting of stubble against his skin.  
It is a kiss that envelops him and speaks only of longing, where he grabs at his shirt in pure desperation to keep him there, even if he knows it is idiotic, that someone else could pass by any second and destroy everything. But once more the other man is wiser, he untangles his fingers and pushes away from him.  
_**“Why, why are you doing this, you can't..”**_ and it is a broken voice that comes out of him. His teammate only smiles, he says his name with a curl of his tongue and looks him in the eyes. _“Because I love seeing you like this”_.

 

It's about control and surrendering, not about purity, but he grasps the latter so firmly that he knows nothing else. All he has left is a facade of who he is, a facade of dreaming smiles and sunshine that he plasters on every morning. It keeps people at distance, where all they have is a sense of feeling sorry for him.  
The man at the opposite side of the garage seems to be one of few that doesn't. He doesn't know it is that he sees, but it is something that hisses along the core of his being. So long has his heart been filled of anger and sorrow and late nights howling out frustration over why, why them, always a why them. It always takes hours to pass, before any darkness subsides and leaves room once more for the dreaming that everyone adores. It is him just as much as the dark, but so few seem to grasp it. Only the man that dons the blue and yellow mixed with the red and white, the man who so daringly kissed him before the race. And now the race is over in a blaze and the weeks will come between them, and the thought alone is destroying him.  
It is late when he meets him, the last sigh of the evening as it surrenders to the night, where the man arrives in the same elevator as himself. Gone is the polite smile, and he can't bring himself to try to bring out any smiles when his heart beats in slow sorrow and the seed of why is taking hold.  
Then the few spoken words, _“Do you trust me?”_. And he looks at him, doesn't know whether to laugh or cry out in frustration. How could he trust someone that teases and gives, just to pull it away when he needs it the most, and he says just as much. And he thinks his heart will stop when he hears _“Perhaps it isn't what you need just because you want it”_ and the elevators doors open with a far too happy ding. He's never felt more like punching him than in that moment, but even in his broken state he realises that punching seldom leads to kissing, and worst of all, he is not a man that hits someone else.  
He is a man that takes what he wants, and now it is once more trying to flee away from him, but this time he chases after, and where the his teammate is just about to open a door, he slams down his hand on the wall right next to him and almost hisses the already answered question of what does he of all people know what he wants.  
It is not until he sees that old infuriating smile that he realises that he has finally done what was right.

 

It is the body that speaks and not him, he gets pulled into a room and pushed up against a door. He thinks it will go far too fast, that he finally is gonna get what he wants, but where he yearns for deep kisses that only the starving can give, the man just leans against him, barely giving him a touch. His face so close to his, he can almost feel him on his skin and it makes his whole body shiver, but all that happens are those icy eyes staring into his soul.  
_“If you want me to stop, just tell me to stop”_. The words make him want to laugh, because why would he want him to stop? He wants him hard and fast, not like this, not with a broken gaze and with soft lips whispering words against his skin. _“Do you trust me”_ , and he breathes out a yes where soft lips touches along his jawline, because what else can you do when surrendering all that you thought you were. All the late nights of fevered dreams, all the mornings he has woken up shivering in shame. This man is turning him into something he never thought he could be, a man that wants to be broken and owned by hard hands, and just the thought of it is enough to make his heart race.  
The sharp sting of teeth against his neck, and he can't help it, he starts begging, he goes through all the languages he knows because language is the power of the soul, but it is not until one small magical word that he feels the man stop and he swears that he can feel a smile against his skin. _“What did you say?”_ , and he repeats it, the few broken syllables that he knows, **_"snälla"_** , a word he learned so early because it is a word for begging and begging is all he knows.

 

There is no longer any control to speak of as he surrenders under his touch. Inch by inch he is letting go, removing everything that he ever thought of himself as he succumbs to the hunger of the kisses. And he breaks, by every piece of clothing that is pulled from his body, the chill of the evening hitting his bare skin. His body speaks and it yearns for the touch of a man that has unravelled him. He wants to be owned, he wants to be marked, and he begs against the lips of the man that pushes against him, he begs to the only man that can deliver him when he feels the erection pressing against his skin. _**“Please”**_ he whispers again against his lips, and he feels fingers gripping his hair tightly, pulling back his head and all he can do is obey. _“Show me then, show me how much you want this”_ and the words sends shivers down his spine as the man pulls him by the hair and forces him down on his knees. He doesn't have to be asked twice, he takes him in his mouth and feels how the grip on his hair eases. It is an almost hissing breath that meets him as he slowly works his tongue down his length, and pride shoots through him as he hears a light moan. It isn't the first time he's made a man unravel just by the touch of his mouth, and god knows that he loves hearing all the small sounds. He takes him deeper and starts moving faster, he wants the man to know just how good he can be, that he can do whatever he wants if he just starts asking and stops playing with him.  
Still he gets taken by surprise when the man grabs his hair harder and thrusts, not deep enough to steal his breath, just deep and slow enough for him to lose control and he knows that this won't last long. He is losing himself in the moment, no time for slow strokes as he hears the small noises from the man, and all he wants is release. And god knows that from so little he is already so close, as the thrusts go deeper and he has to pull short and shallow breaths to get the air that he needs. Still he can't help but let out a muffled moan, the rough hands makes him wish that there were words in any language to beg for more. Please just love me.  
One last thrust steals his breath away and the taste of salt lightly caresses his tongue before the man pulls out with a gasp as he comes, the warm liquid spreading over his still quivering mouth. It sends shivers down his spine and he comes with hitched breathing and a moan, his body in spasms as his world explodes.  
He doesn't expect the sudden silence, to only hear the sound of his pounding heart as the grip of his hair disappears. Liquid drips down his face, as he looks up at the man that has delivered him and given him what he needed. For just a moment he thinks that he will be left there, that the man will disappear just like everyone else, that the why will be filled once more and leave him with hopeless nights.  
But gone is the polite smile, gone is the infuriating smile, and what is left is a smile that he could drown in. And the hands that were so rough are suddenly so gentle, as he helps him up on unsteady legs under whispering words. _“You did good”_ , as a kiss is planted on his forehead. He can't help it, a smile spreads on his face as he looks into those grey eyes, the sense of dreaming as he tastes his lips. It isn't until now that he understands what it means to truly surrender.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okey so! First of all, thank you so much for all the kudos and for waiting a bit long. This chapter was evil when it came to edits and it really turned out a bit too long. Next chapter will take a bit longer as I won't be home as much for the next week, but I'll try to get it up in two weeks time atleast.
> 
> Oh, and Charles begs in Swedish and says "Please". And remember, consent is key as usual.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just like the last chapter, there's filth at the end.

He has learned to never count on tenderness, because people have a tendency to disappear. They get pulled from you far too early, and all that is left is being stoic and never letting your voice break. Tenderness shows the cracks in the foundation, and worst of all, it allows the _why_ to fester. That is why the tears that sneak upon him always fall in silence and loneliness, and that is why the _why_ only manifests in the worst of suffocating nights. Any care in the world would break his precious balance, and it is a risk he just cannot take.  
When he gave him his number, he did not expect the sudden message of _“please take care of yourself”_. It sounds like a goodbye and terrifies him down to the core, he is convinced that it has all been for one night only and that he has actually just been _used_. His throat thickens up and he can't stop it, his breathing becomes thin fragments of itself in something that is just a spiral to pain. The _why_ burns inside him, he shouldn't have expected more, not of him, not from the man that is there to destroy those like him. He let himself fall like some _stupid naïve child_ , he fell and let himself drown in blonde hair on soft pillows and grey eyes resting on his gasping lips. When the night ends, it ends not in tears but with a hoarse howl and a pain that holds his heart hostage.  
But the next day the message is repeated in a new variation. _“Be kind to yourself”_ , and he realises that this isn't the end, it is just new ground that he has never dared to tread. His cheeks heat up and he can't help but groan over his reaction. Of course there is something more, of course the swede won't let him go, at least not yet. Not as long as he manages to give him what he wants. Whatever that is.  
It turns to a week of the different messages. He tries to answer with dismissive teasing words to keep everything tender at a distance, but each time the phone echoes back with an annoying silence until another day rises and another new message of kindness greets him.  
The man is an enigma, and he wishes that last week had ended differently.

It is a different type of pain he is looking for when the body aches for the touch of a man he cannot get. He pushes his body to extents he did not find believable, his muscles scream as he runs and every breath he takes gets heavier and makes the chest sting. He wants, he longs and yearns, and the feeling doesn't disappear even when he finally stumbles and wheezes to a rest. When the pain finally subsides he is not sure what he is actually running from, if it is the mountain of expectations that is falling upon him, if it is the whispering words of feeling so sorry for him, or if it is the loss of bare skin pressing down on him. His lack of control made him unravel and left him open for wounds, and now he has to regain all that he has lost. And so he takes a deep breath, drags his hands through his hair and continues the torture of his body in hope that it will also reach his soul.  
There are no words in any language to describe the need of a strong hand on his skin or the need of a hard grip around his wrists. That is why he runs, because running means forgetting as he breathes in the smell of saltwater. It is a small country but it makes him feel smaller, and suddenly he longs for the dark woods of his dreams. Woods that envelop and swallow everything, those that he heard the swede describe as something that sounds like fairytales, and he stops in his steps once more. It isn't pain that is upon him, just the shivering realisation that he has a choice. He isn't a slave to waiting any more, and he pulls out his phone and types out the only few words that he knows.  
_**[I need you]**_  
_[Then come.]_

Tenderness breaks people down and affection hurts more than pain will ever do. It is tenderness that comes with a soft caress of his thigh when he complains that _**“this is for sure not what counts as warm in the summer”**_. He looks out of the window of the passenger-seat in the dusky evening, and all he can see is acres of empty farmland in intertwining with the sudden darkness of the heavy woods. It is a country for small gestures, a country made of long streaks of nothing. There is a beauty in the emptiness as the travel into smaller roads of sharp gravel and soft leaves, but it stings him and he wonders how it is possible to grow up in that without losing yourself.  
Silence is something that kills where he has always strived to talk, to talk anything out. Because if he just talks, if he just masters the gateway to the soul, perhaps he will reach people before they have time to disappear. If he just talks, they will know the emptiness they will create when they go too early. But there's something about the swede that pulls out the silence in him, that puts away the rambling thoughts that he otherwise manages to blurt out. His presence alone makes him collect his thoughts and weigh every word on silver scales, all in order to not get tortured with more nonsense and easy jokes. Still he has to dare, he has to take the chance and maybe, just maybe, he'll get what he actually want without the teasing words and dismissing looks.  
_**“What do you really want from me?”**_. It's a question asked more open than he has ever dared, a question which lingers on his tongue and pulls out the slow drawl of his accent that he tries to hide so well. And there it is, the same polite smile that somehow lingers on sincerity.  
_“You know that already”_ , and the voice reaches him so low that he almost wants to beg, just to hear those few words that somehow gets to the core of him. But he pushes it away, he can't sell himself that easily, he has a need to know what makes this man tick and why his fingers linger just a bit too long on his thigh. He is a puzzle that he needs to put together, and so he asks what he needs to know the most.  
_**“But can you give me what I want?”**_ as the car pulls to a stop. And there it is, the smile that shows the canines, and a low whisper that promises everything.  
_“That depends on you”_ , and the man exits the car without another word, leaving him in the thick darkness. It's not at all terrifying, at least that is what he tells himself as he bolts out of the car. Heavy woods of small gestures are no place for tender city-boys after all.

Nothing brings the same type of heartbreaking pain like longing for someone you can't get. It is a dread that stays with him, even when the man presses up against him and kisses him with the thirst of the drowning. Still the doubt lingers inside of how long will this last before before the blonde also turns to another _why_. It is a feeling that is fast discarded with the first hint of teeth against his lips, a shiver running along his skin and god knows that he wants him, he wants to lose himself in these kisses. But just as before, the man lets him go with an infuriating smile. It is the same tiring waltz as before, and it frustrates him far too much.  
He doesn't understand what the magic word is for getting the man to push against him, to get him to press him down and claim him as his own, because one wrong word and it all stops. Worst of all, the other man enjoys it far too much, he loves this torture of making him gasp for air after heavy kisses and he doesn't even try to hide his amusement. He sees it in the way he looks at him, every time he pulls away, and what he had hoped would be an evening spent exhausting himself is going far too slow for his liking. And no measure of charm helps, no dreaming looks or open mouths, because he knows that the man wants to see him beg and nothing else. He just hasn't reached that point of desperation yet, even with slow and frustrating caresses of his skin.  
Perhaps the man senses the frustration in the air, where he suddenly streaks a finger along his jawline, and he can't help but to shiver. Kisses are for the starving, where the swede faintly touches his gasping lips with that same god damn smile. _“You know, you can always tell me to stop”_. He can't do this any more, so he begs, he sputters words about how he needs his touch, but not the soft teasing or the slow edging. He looks him straight into his grey eyes and shivers when he dares to mouth that he just wants to be fucked. For a moment the whole room is still, the man standing in front of him looking at him silently. Like a judge that holds his life in his hands, where the man goes closer and stares him right in the eyes with a unmoveable gaze that is almost threatening.  
_“Is the little rich boy making demands?”_ and it is a low voice that shakes him at his core. _“You're used to doing that aren't you, commanding and getting people to follow it.”_ He opens his mouth to protest the sharp words, to once more let him know that he isn't like that, but all that comes out is a short yelp from the stinging pain of his hair getting pulled with a firm hand. A rough kiss of his mouth, where teeth linger just a second too long on his lips. _“I'll show you what happens when you don't ask nicely”_ It is a pain he isn't used to, and it is making him shiver.

There is no tenderness in clothes getting torn off and being pushed down face first onto a bed. Not when the man pins his arms behind his back, he feels the slight friction of rope against his skin, his wrists getting tied together and he can't help but shivering from excitement. It is all he has ever wanted and still more as the hands grab him so roughly, short nails grazing his soft skin.  
And it is not pain he is given when he feels slow slick fingers entering him, just ecstasy as he moans and begs into the cold sheets. He can't wait no more, where he aches and his heartbeat pulsates through his whole body, but the man is slow and methodical in his preparation. The rope pulls against his wrists, it caresses his skin as he writhes and he begs once more, _**“Please, I need you!”**_ and for a moment the man stops. It's enough to make his heart skip a beat when the man pulls out, and he wants to scream for forgiveness over overstepping some boundaries that he didn't know of.  
But he feels the man bending over him, he feels him hard and his breath on his skin as fingers tangle into his hair and it's another sharp pull that makes him gasp. A sting of stubble on his neck as he feels his lips touch his ear, and it's a hoarse whisper that meets him.  
_“I don't want another word from your mouth unless you're screaming my name”_ , and the words alone is almost enough to deliver him as the man slowly starts edging into him. He gasps and can't help but to moan as his arms twitch against the rope, where the man takes it slow and carefully. If he had been free he would have pushed back, would have begged for more and faster. But he can't do anything where the he just gently pushes in, where fingernails gets dragged along his skin and his hips grabbed with hard hands. And he can't help it, he lets out a moan as the man slowly starts thrusting.  
Somewhere his world is starting to blur, with each thrust where the man goes deeper until he fills him, and he isn't enough of a good man to keep this inside him. He starts moaning loudly, and he begs for deliverance, he begs in all languages he knows because language is the key to the heart. And he begs when he feels it build up, where the friction against the sheets is enough to get him so close, his wrists strain against the rope with every thrust, and when it comes it goes so quickly that he can't contain it any more. Instead he screams out in pleasure when it pulses out of him, he pulls so hard on the rope where the thrusts get deeper and faster. For just a moment he loses all control over where he is, where the man groans behind him and hisses in one last deep and hard thrust as he collapses on top of him.  
Their breathing is light and shallow, as the man on top of him pants into his ear. _“Fuck”_ , is the last thing he expects to hear, as he feels light fingers on his wrists, and the harsh grip of the rope easing up and disappearing. His muscles ache when he gets released, and before he has time to move his arms he feels a hand caress his in a movement so kind that it threatens to destroy him. Hands that move over his shivering skin as he feels the man on top of him once more, as he feels kisses on his neck and a warm breath through his hair. It would be enough to snare and break his heart even before the why took place in his life. _“I want it to stay like this”_ , the man murmurs against his ear, and it is with a shiver running along his body that he understands that it is not tenderness but pain that will break and undo him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whelp, so this went faster than I expected. It turned into another long one, and I'm afraid to say that the next(and last!) chapter is looking long aswell.  
> Thanks again for all the kudos and comments, they make it way easier to sit and write and edit. And just like last time, consent is key and aftercare is a must.  
> And I like forests. Can you tell?


	5. Chapter 5

It's in the leaving that the agony begins and he knows it far too well. Everything he does always counts down towards the end, and this year has been no different. He has put his mark on the sport that they call their own, and the man that makes him scream his name is just another man. He won't be enough to keep him there, not when destiny takes hold of him to make him into something else.  
That is why the black stallions called him, why they claimed him as their own. He knows it will unravel and shake up everything, that it will leave ripples that last throughout the year. And it will all be because of his shaky signature on a thick pile of papers, because when the stallions call, you only answer with a yes. It is a secret he carries close to his heart, bound by their wishes for silence and their chase for glory.  
And so he stays silent with his dreaming smile, and when media hunts him down it is with a light and carefree voice that he pretends to just have hopes for something else. It would be a dream, he says, it's all he ever wanted, and if he just continues to work hard he is sure they will see it even if he already has his home. And he tries so hard to keep his voice steady when they mention the why, because it is never sated with his stoic smiles. All while the man watches in the distance, and when he looks over it is not politeness that meets him any more but a look of understanding. For every word that he utters he could swear that the man already knows of all the lies hiding, and that it will be used against him at some point to start the leaving.  
But during the week in the forest, he does not mention a word of the secrets that might be kept from him, he does not try to coax them out of him when he is already begging on his knees. Somewhere deep inside he expected differently, where the reminder of the destroyer of his kind still lives. They told him that the swede would do anything to break him like he had done to the others, and it lingers in his heart that maybe, just maybe, this is just another ploy to ruin him. That he was right to feel used, that it is nothing more than stringing him along and making him lose his focus.  
It just doesn't feel like that when he feels gentle fingers caressing his back as he wakes up from far too deep slumber. It feels too close to be a lie when a careful kiss touches his neck and he hears a hoarse whisper against his skin. _“Jag skulle aldrig ha gått med på det här. Allt var enklare innan dig.”_ He doesn't dare to stir as he feels the man move away from the room. Whatever he said, it didn't sound happy, and it's breaking his heart in two.

 

Lust is just the beginning of heartache, when autumn smiles upon them and brings back the cars and the living in the fast lane. Gone is the deep woods and all that it left behind is a hunger that seems impossible to try to sate. There is so much else he should be doing to focus on his future, but all he can think about is the feeling of him inside and the memories alone are enough to bring back those nights where he writhes in heavy breathing. And his own fevered touches is far from what he wants, but he can't help it, he needs it under his far too loud moaning. _Take me_ , he whispers to the empty room. _Love me_ , as his hands wander on his skin and he begs to the night for a release he just can't reach without him.  
He has no idea where they will go now, where all the messages returned are the same of kindness and no begging in the world will give him anything more. The swede keeps as elusive as before, and where he thought they were closer together he now sees the distance between them. For a week they forgot the gap between them and he carries it with him in his soul.  
It is just meant to be a last day of work at the factory before they all head out to new glory, but all it takes is one look at the distant man to fall so hard. His body aches with longing, and he can see that the other man feels the same, where the grey eyes see through him and the lips mouth out a _“later”_ that is for his eyes only.  
It doesn't take long before they find an empty room where it turns into a quick fuck of desperation against a wall and teeth dragged along his skin. He doesn't even care if anyone finds out at this point, not when the man whispers to him _“You would love it if they all knew, wouldn't you? If they just knew what their golden boy was really up to behind closed doors”_. He isn't a better man than this, there is no use for him to try to pretend any more. _**“Mark me then, make me yours”**_. That is all it takes for the man behind him to stop, and the lack of thrusts is making him whimper as the hands on his hips grip him tighter. He is so close, he wants so much where his body shivers. A warm breath caresses his neck as the man whispers _“You are already mine.”_ and thrusts into him once more. It is words that finally delivers the release he has been begging for, he gasps for air against the wall and wishes that the man would never stop, that it would be like this forever. But nothing lasts forever, and it is with a low moan that the man finishes with hard hands on his skin. For a moment there is only the sound of their breathing, before the man pulls out and he stands there alone. _Please don't leave me_ , but the words gets stuck as thoughts as the man turns him around and softly kisses him. So gentle touches, where he wishes the man could say those few words he doesn't dare to utter himself. That he belongs to him but not in skin only, not just like this.  
But the man stays silent under the gentle caresses, he helps him clean up and later it will just be any other day with a gap between them that just keeps getting larger. If he was a better man he would make the divide stop. But he isn't.

 

Nothing makes the heart beat so fast, as the threat of being left alone. It lingers along his skin just as his tender touches, where every piece of roughness is thrice paid back with the gentle. He just wishes that all the soft kisses could still the _why_ growing in his heart.  
For weeks they do nothing else than quick fucks when he really shouldn't, and nightly marathons that he didn't even think that he was capable of. The man might be insatiable, but so is he where he sinks into hungering kisses and gets claimed in his name. He fell for the taste of salt on his tongue and the lasting scent of dark woods, he fell harder than ever before and now he is doing everything he can to make it last. He knows that for every race that passes, time it ticking out, and he has no one to blame but himself.  
It is desperation when winter stands before them and he realises that all options have been closed off. Next year they will both discard the red and white, but the man resting next to him will be yet another that leaves. The swede has not mentioned when or where he will go, and it terrifies him to not know. Any day he could be pulled away, any second could be the last, and it fuels the why in a way he is not used to. It whispers of how this was gonna happen from the start, that he should have known that at just the first glance. That he should never have allowed himself to fall like this.  
In his dreams he is drowning, cold water rushing over him as he fights to stay over the surface. He has never feared water, but the ocean is pitch black and threatens to swallow him whole. His energy falters and he know that he can't win over this, but still he fights when strong hands suddenly take a grip of him and pulls him up over the surface. Not long enough to drag him away to safety, just long enough for him to breathe.  
He wakes up with a twitch and a sudden gasp, the lack of air feeling far too real. And he buries his face in his hands, because how is he gonna do this? How is he gonna be able to survive when it feels like his heart is bursting and the _why_ is the strongest it's been in years? He can't help it, out comes a muffled sob as he fights to keep the tears inside.  
Still he doesn't expect to feel a soft hand over his back and the shuffling of the man beside him. The nights have been rough on his skin, and with the looming end he expects no tenderness any more, not from him. But suddenly he finds strong arms around him as the man pulls him into a hug, he feels him rest his head on his shoulder and paper-thin whispers touches his ear. _“Kom här, det är okej. Du är hos mig nu.”_ and he can't help but to crawl up against the soothing and to grab him with all the life he has left. Even if the darkness covers them he can still see worried eyes through his tears, a tender hand on his cheek wiping away almost all that hurts.  
_**“Please don't leave me. I can't..”**_ and there is no possible way for him to even pronounce the last words. _“You can. You are stronger than you think.”_. He doesn't see how it's possible, how the broken can still be strong. He is not broken metal that is easy to forge back together, he is porcelain in pieces that somehow still manages to function. The man looks at him, a tender kiss on his lips that only speaks of sorrow.  
_“I don't want this to end either, but we have no choice. Don't for a second believe that I am enjoying this. Charles, jag..”._  
It is the first time he sees the man struggling for words, choking on his mother tongue on words too serious to be said. Because he already knows what he is trying to say, and it's words that steal his breath and just sends hurt. Before he never wanted anything more than to hear them, before he still thought they could mend it all. Now he isn't so sure any more.  
Some men are destined for greatness. They are not meant to fall for men who are made for something less.

*

The night is the mother of the day, just as winter fathers spring. The chill that kept stroking his bones has long since disappeared, and for the first time in months he feels like he can breathe freely. Because even if winter brought sorrow, spring brought hope where he buried himself in forging his destiny. Everything in life has prepared him for all that is to come, he was made to run with the stallions and nothing will change his course. The fact that his new teammate is a world champion changes nothing, because that man has everything to lose and he has none. He survived the killer of his kind, and for the first time in so long, he is fully in control. Even the why has stayed silent, giving way for harder work, because if he just became better everything would be fine. And he is another man, a better man. A man that knows he will take the world by storm if just given the chance.  
But all it takes is a smile in the crowd as he moves through the paddock. A far too polite smile, a man in red and white and a gaze that breaks through. He stops in his tracks, a shiver running along his skin, and he can't help but stare. And the smile turns infuriating and not polite, as he sees the man mouth just one little word that sounds like a question, _“Later”_. He swallows sharply, thoughts racing through his mind on how he isn't that man any more, he is someone else, he is stronger now and can't let himself fall. And he sees the man mouth something else, words that he puzzles together from the static language, words that the man has never said before and he never thought he would hear.  
That is why it is with a dreaming gaze and tender lips that he smiles, the same look that has made men fall before and the blonde was no different. Because who can resist a man that always looks like he is dreaming, and that is why he whispers out the only word he needs. Because it is a word for begging, and begging is all he knows. _**“Please.”**_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this was a rollercoaster of emotions to write. I rewrote this chapter multiple times because it just didn't feel correct, and in the end I settled on What Would Charles Do? Well, he takes what he wants, so let's allow him to have that. We all have fragile moments after all, but time tends to see us return to normal.
> 
> Thanks for reading, for all the kudos and comments. It always helps a writer to know that their work is appreciated.
> 
> Now, for the regular Swedish-lesson:  
> Jag skulle aldrig ha gått med på det här. Allt var enklare innan dig. = I should never have agreed to this. Everything was simple before you were in the picture  
> Kom här, det är okej. Du är hos mig nu. = Come here, it's okey. You're with me now.
> 
> And I won't leave this series without writing what I have done before. Consent is key in so much in life. Aftercare is so, so important. And many people out there are sad and can use a hug at times. Be kind.


End file.
